Game, Set, Match
by SnowGirl098
Summary: Because she is The Woman and she is extraordinary. He needs her help because she knows the criminal world better than he does.


I have to say, the reason I started writing this in the first place is because there are so many Irene/Sherlock stories that, as good as they are, always seem to portray Irene as "lesser" than Sherlock, in some way or another. Personally, my take is that they are equals, in _every_ way, including intellectually. That's how I wanted to see Irene portrayed, so in that sense, I suppose you could call this story my ode to Irene Adler.

* * *

_When I say run, RUN!_

And run she does. Not, however, before stabbing the neck of the man who took her phone with a small pocket knife she'd managed to conceal beneath her robes. Taking her phone back along with his gun, she manages to take out three other veiled men approaching from the vehicle. It isn't until she's sure that all the remaining men are unarmed that she runs.

By the time he finishes incapacitating the rest of the witnesses, she's gone.

...

It's relatively easy to fake her death. Any nitwit with attention to detail could have done it, though he took extra precautions as he knew Mycroft would be digging into the (second) death of Irene Adler. After paying a few people off and threatening a few others, all it really came down to was editing the video footage and producing a corpse. The corpse wasn't difficult, as she was supposed to have been beheaded, and the people Mycroft would be talking to weren't actually at the beheading themselves so they genuinely believed Irene Adler was dead. As for the video footage, well, technology was a wonderful thing, and soon enough, Irene Adler was dead to the world.

He barely manages to suppress his smirk when he sees John struggling with words and debating whether or not to tell him that Irene Adler had died at the hands of terrorists in Pakistan. He knows Mycroft must have fed him the story about Irene somehow managing to get into a witness protection program in America (though, he doesn't doubt she could), and he enjoys a small, personal victory at one-upping Mycroft.

He still hasn't managed to pinpoint where she is exactly, but he'd venture a guess that the Mexican bank fraud that's currently making its way through the global headlines was, in some way, her doing.

...

It takes him two more months to track her down.

Ironically, she's in the exact place John believes _he_ thinks she is. She's not in the witness protection program, but she does have a new identity. Her name is Katherine Norton and she resides in New York City, NY. Her public profile reads businesswoman, though her company is very obscure, vaguely identified as 'personal financing'. She seems to be keeping a low profile and staying away from political scandals. However, upon further inquiry, he discovers she's now a con artist.

He chuckles at the idea: Katherine Norton — professional scammer. He has to admire its cleverness. The transactions themselves are completely legal. The clientele don't even realize what they've lost until the deal is done, and then it's too late. The contracts are signed; the money is paid. All associations and ties are cut.

The actual _process_ of scamming, however, is an entirely different matter. It would seem that she _seduced_ a prominent senator — under a different alias — into giving a small company a rather large grant of money, fifty percent of which she was privy to, unbeknownst to both parties. Upon further investigation, the small company was discovered to be a branch of a much larger company that extended its influence into many fields, including but not limited to, the monopolization and manipulation of the North American Free Trade Agreement, which monitored the trade exchanges between the United States and Canada.

Men really were such fools sometimes. Especially when it came to light that she _hadn't_ seduced the man. She'd barely flirted with him, instead using the good old-fashioned 'daft damsel in distress' act and stroking of the ego for the majority of her persuasion.

He still has some grudging admiration for that act. As much as it irritates him that it worked on him (to an extent) — he will _not_ be lobbed in with the average man — he admits that it was quite an ingenious façade. Recalling his first meeting with The Woman, he remembers telling her to _think_, while it'd been clear she'd already figured out the death of the hiker. He should have known the second he'd turned around and her expression changed from restrained confusion to one of predatory superiority; but he hadn't. He'd been a step too slow, too caught up in her mask of what she wanted him to see to notice that she was already two steps ahead. Irene Adler knew people and knew how to manipulate them. She knew what they liked and their biggest weaknesses, and she wasn't afraid to exploit them.

It's how she's managed to resituate herself atop a wealthy tier in the span of four months.

It's also why she continues to intrigue him to no end.

...

He loses her in Belgium.

He hears rumours here and there (_one million lost in transfer_, _quarter of a billion lost in stock exchange_) about contracts just barely jumping through the loopholes in the law, and though he's absolutely sure it's her, she's nowhere to be found.

...

She's being discreet, he muses. Her entire business is based quietly on word of mouth. There are no flamboyant addresses to people of influence, no publically flanking personnel — not even a website. Nevertheless, he manages to obtain an email address and an unidentified contact number.

Not that he plans to use them. They're purely for archive purposes. Clearly.

However, when a trail of internationally bounced checks results in a rather staggering loss of annual revenue for Britain, he knows she's getting restless again (not that he's coping much better — there hasn't been a decent case in _weeks_). Sooner or later, she'll want an audience.

Four months later, she reappears in Russia under the name _Dominika Maximova_.

Dominika is an unconventional artist with a penchant for posing in nothing but a beret and Vicente Rey lace stilettos. She enjoys painting as much as she enjoys being painted.

Naturally, she's sought out by men (and women) all over for her artistic talents.

...

_Dominika _disappears a week after her appearance. In that week, she manages to worm her way into nearly every high-class gala of influence in Moscow, hanging off the arm of many a rich man. Two ambassadors file claims of legal infringement and the Russian embassy declares the disappearance of "crucial documents imperative to the welfare of the nation". The prime minister memorably gets caught in a scandal reportedly involving steel binds. There was no photographic evidence, but he was found tied up and bound to a bedpost in an unspecified state of undress. Rumours say his wife is already courting a string of lovers, one of whom includes a feisty, young, up-and-coming artist.

...

He follows her trail down to Australia before he loses her again.

She has, once again, quietly disappeared and vanished off the face of the earth; only this time, he needs her help.

It pains him to admit it, but Moriarty's getting close, and he has his suspicions of the consulting criminal's intentions.

He never did figure out how she managed to fake her death the first time. Providing the corpse would have been easy enough, but he'd looked into it. There had been video footage of her jumping off the Tower Bridge — several, in fact, most taken by spectators. Many video recounts clearly show her face before her body plunges into the icy cold waters of the Thames River. There is no way she could have survived the 42.5 meter fall at the location where she jumped. Where she jumped, she would have landed near the shore, right atop the shallow rocks of the riverbed. Even if she had relaxed every muscle in her body, she still would have died a fairly immediate death. The rugged surface of the underwater terrain would have torn her skin to shreds, quickly leaving her to bleed to death. Additionally, the blood on the corpse _had_ been fresh, but unless Irene had killed a woman by repeatedly striking her in the face solely for the purpose of faking her own death, it would have been impossible to maintain the emanation of blood in the dead corpse, especially not with the mauled state of the face. Anyhow, Irene's not one to go out and kill innocent bystanders for the sake of her own wellbeing. She'll shoot terrorists and murderous crime leaders in a heartbeat if they crossed her, but she won't harm innocents. Oh, she'll drug and abuse them, and perhaps tear their reputations to shreds without ever batting an eyelash, but she won't kill them. Once she's done toying with them and they have no choice but to beg, she'll leave them with whatever pieces are left of their lives that hasn't been destroyed. She'll laugh, she'll tease, she'll establish herself as the prevailing party, but in the end, she'll leave them alone.

She plays for the thrill. And while she may fancy the power provided by the game, it's the chase that she's truly addicted to. The power plays serve nothing more than to provide amusement.

Life itself, the chance to _play_ the game, actually matters to her.

He ends up spending hours mulling over it, poring over the pictures and video footage trying to come up with something, _anything_, that would explain how she did it. It irks him to no end that he can't figure it out — can't figure _her_ out.

(He knows she knows she's impressed him, wherever the bloody hell she is, and it's just another mark on her side of the scoreboard.)

...

Eventually, he caves.

He knows when an end is nearing, and in this case, the game is a thousand times more deadly. Moriarty doesn't share her value for life, and as often as he himself suffers from the boredom that plagues it, he'd very much like to keep his (perhaps he isn't as sociopathic as he'd like to think).

He ends up texting her.

_Let's have dinner._

_-SH_

Two hours later, he gets a reply (he wonders what she's doing; he knows she wouldn't wait two hours simply to appear nonchalant about his text, so something — someone? — has been occupying her).

_Oh? Is it the end of the world already?_

_-IA_

_Perhaps._

_-SH_

It takes her another minute to answer, and he knows he's aroused her suspicions, perhaps even intrigued her.

_I'm in Paris for the weekend. Come down and we'll have a chat._

_-IA_

_Shall I make reservations?_

_-SH_

_I know a place._

_-IA_

He knows he's not getting any more information out of her, so he lets it go, and on Saturday, he takes the Eurostar down to the city of lights and lovers.

He's approached by a bellboy the minute the train takes off and given a coded note. He's surprised yet again when it takes him half the train ride to decode it (in his defense, he isn't the most fluent in French).

_Le Relais du Louvre. 19:00_

He isn't at all surprised that she picked to meet at a hotel, though he is surprised after attaining her room number from the receptionist (she was the only person to check in within the last week — she's going by the name _Vivienne Margaux_) to find that she isn't there. Instead, he finds a silk button-up on the bed with a handwritten note.

_It's concert night darling. Put this on. It matches my dress._

It irritates him, knowing she knew he'd check the hotel room first, but he changes into the shirt anyway, and though the logical part of his brain knows it's obvious, a small part of him is still faintly shocked to find her sitting in the hotel restaurant (appropriately dressed), mildly sipping at a glass of white wine.

She looks up when he sits down (his face is a blank mask, but he's wearing the shirt and it's enough of a personal victory to be worth not meeting him in her hotel room, whip in hand — she hates being predictable), motioning for him to be quiet.

They're seated at a table on the balcony that has a clear view of the stage. A young woman, mid-twenties, walks to the microphone. The lights dim and the young lady begins to sing. He recognizes the song as the only finished opera by the French composer Debussy, but his eyes stay locked on the woman in front of him, taking in every change she's made in the past months.

Her hair has been dyed a deep red and harshly cut to shoulder length. It's also straight as a stick, making her cheekbones even more pronounced. A slight fringe brushes over her left eyebrow. Her lips are once again blood red, only now they match her hair instead of her nails, which have been cut short and left unpainted.

So. She's using her hands now.

Her dress is short and black, and hugs every curve of her body. There's a thin band of indigo that cinches in at the waist that is the same colour as the shirt he's now wearing. The dress has been freshly pressed, so he has no idea what she's been up to all day.

She's still as unreadable as ever, and when she looks at him and matches his gaze with a steely confidence, he knows their last encounter did nothing to weaken her resolve, however much it exposed her.

When the concert is over, he addresses her.

"Miss Adler."

Her lips curve up into a flirtatious smirk as she replies, "Mr. Holmes."

...

He's never been one to make mundane small talk, so she isn't surprised when he cuts straight to the chase.

"How did you do it?"

"Pardon?" She sips at her wine and lifts an eyebrow. She knows what he's talking about, of course, but he came all the way from London and he's wearing the shirt she left him, so she figures she may as well enjoy herself a little.

"The Tower Bridge," he answers flatly, "How did you fake your death?"

"You mean, how did I fool you?" Her eyes are sparkling, and she laughs at the annoyed look on his face. "Quite simply, really."

When she doesn't elaborate, he presses, "_How?_"

She shakes her head. "Details first, Mr. Holmes. I want to know why, of all times, you're interested now. Something's come up, hasn't it?"

When he doesn't answer, she nods. "I thought so."

He remains silent for a few seconds more before sighing and uttering a single word, "Moriarty."

Her smile fades, and for a second, she looks almost apologetic before the expression disappears.

"So I've heard. He's after you again?"

"Yes. Only this time, I think he's going to do more than bait a few strangers off the street."

She nods in understanding. "You think he'll threaten John."

"And Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. Anyone he knows is a weak spot of mine."

"And you think faking your death is the solution."

"I think it's _one_ solution. It would be a last resort option. Being dead would be terribly boring."

"It's actually not as bad as you'd think. It's surprisingly freeing."

"You've been careless."

"Oh I think I managed to clean up alright."

"You're _supposed_ to be keeping a low profile. You're fortunate that I'm the only one who caught on to your little escapades in Russia."

She arches an eyebrow. "Is that worry I detect, Mr. Holmes? I'm flattered you care for my wellbeing."

"Don't be," he replies flatly. "I hope it's clear to you that rescuing you again is not a priority of mine."

"I'm flattered you would."

He doesn't reply to that.

"No need to worry about me, Mr. Holmes. I think I'll be fine seeing as even you didn't catch on to my dalliances in the Czech Republic."

He looks confused for a second. "What did you do in the Czech Republic?"

"Oh, nothing of significance," she smirks. "Not anymore anyways. I don't suppose you'll actually be ordering anything?"

"No. I'm —"

"— working on a case. Of course," and with that, she stands and waves off the approaching waiter, leaving fifty euros on the table.

...

She takes him the long way around to the lobby, bypassing several business functions being held in the hotel's ballrooms. In one of them, she spots Christine Daaé, the opera singer who had graced them with Debussy in the restaurant. Next to her is a man in his late twenties: blond hair, green eyes, finely-tailored suit. Christine's arm is looped around his, her other handling a glass of wine, diamond engagement ring glinting in the light.

Irene smirks.

He won't be hard to play, if the way he's leering at every woman in the room under the age of forty is any indication. Admittedly, it won't be her best work — hardly a challenge to seduce a predisposed man, one who's _clearly_ only too willing — but the girl's father is paying a hefty sum, and she needs the money to fund her next undertaking.

She sees Sherlock scrutinizing her out of the corner of her eye and ignores his questioning gaze. After all, he had been the one to teach her never to deviate from work.

The memory of that night flits through her mind's eye, and despite its briefness, every detail, however miniscule, is intensified.

The soft, red glow of the room, the accelerated breaths — they both know her pupils weren't the only ones that had dilated, and yet, she'd been the only one to forgo caution and let the exhilaration of the moment carry her. He'd fascinated her, a bundle of contradictions in and of himself. She'd always loved a good puzzle, and Sherlock Holmes was a game that played her as well as she played him. She'd been drawn to the challenge and the inexplicable gravity that came with the excitement of their game. That single moment of exulted furor, that moment of '_what if_,' had been her mistake.

A single instance of indulgence, she muses, and her whole world unraveled.

And yet, she can't truly bring herself to believe that indulging herself was a weakness. It'd been a mistake at the time perhaps, one that had cost her greatly, but despite everything she'd lost, it was he who had saved her. Emotions were powerful motivators, providing more conviction than any sort of detached discernment ever could — it was simply a matter of knowing when and where to exercise control.

Besides, she's rather enjoyed her climb back to the top.

When they at last reach her room, he's already pulled out his phone and is scrolling through the pictures of her supposed suicide, verbally analyzing them at a mile a minute.

"…impossible for water vehicles to maneuver. I suppose if there had been a sudden propulsion of underwater current, the momentum would have carried you to deeper water; however, you would have needed at least 50 cubic meters of water — most likely more, seeing as you were only _roughly_ 50 meters offshore — blasted at a velocity greater than or equal to the velocity at which you were falling, which would have been quite fast seeing as gravity accelerates free-fall at 9.8 meters per second squared, disregarding air resistance. Wave propulsion would also be slowed greatly in the medium of water, so unless you have created a method of ensuring a small tidal wave at the press of a button or something similarly capable of accurate timing, it is completely impossible that you were carried to safety by means of a water current, surface or otherwise."

He looks triumphant for a second before he realizes that he has, once again, only eliminated _one_ of the impossibilities. With Irene, it's impossible to eliminate the entirety of the realm of the impossible because she creates an impossible amount of possibilities. There is no way to sort through what remains because _too much_ remains.

Unlike the rest of humanity, Irene Adler does not follow a straight line. It's so _easy_ with other people, he thinks. They'll go from _A_ to _B_ because of reasons _X_, _Y_, and _Z_. They'll take a certain route and won't stop unless _G_, _H_, or _J_ occurs. Or, if something happens that makes them feel _P_, _Q_, _R_, _S_, or _T_, they'll take a detour at either _D_ or _F_. The destination, the _purpose_, remains the same. Unless, of course, an event occurs that is not in the nature of the person, in which case it would mean outside forces have intervened and studies would have to be conducted on the interfering factors. There's always a pattern, some form of rhyme and reason revealing motive, method, and purpose.

Predictable. _Boring_.

Except with Irene Adler.

He knows there's a pattern to Irene too, but her pattern is buried underneath the many layers and masks that she has spun for herself. She is an endless puzzle, taking all the observations he's so carefully catalogued and jumbling them together so that the patterns are obscured. _A_ no longer leads to _B_, and the reasons can be anything from _L_, _M_, or _N_ to _one_, _two_, or _three_.

It frustrates him.

It fascinates him.

She smirks. "You're right, Mr. Holmes. It's impossible."

...

She goes into the bathroom to retrieve her toiletry bag and send a text message. When she walks back to the bedroom, he is still processing theory after theory, picking out all the inconsistencies. She hears traces of an idea involving electromagnetic compulsion and laughingly turns to the vanity, taking out a stick of rouge. By the time she's reapplied the red to her lips, he's gone through and dismissed three more theories.

"Air resistance of the jacket is always a possibility…no, no, same result as the cord theory — impossible. Perhaps there was a water-corrodible prosthetic made to fit an operable machine?"

Recapping the lipstick, she turns to him with an expression of surprised amusement. "A robot?"

"No. A robot would imply artificial intelligence. All your robot had to do was walk a few meters along the side of a bridge." He frowns. "Am I right?"

She smiles cryptically, eyes glinting. "Not even close."

His frown deepens and she laughs as he comes dangerously close to pouting.

"Do you ever stop hypothesizing?"

"Not if I can help it. The world would be in a much better state if people would think more."

"It depends on your perspective."

There is a hint of sadness in her tone that makes him examine her more closely.

"Look at Moriarty," she says, contemplatively. "A man who never stops thinking, constantly deriving new ways of gaining power. No one can keep up with him. Or his ruthless ways," she quickly adds upon seeing Sherlock's irritated scowl. "His genius may be easily matched, but his malignancy? Unparalleled."

He recalls the old woman — the _blind_ old woman who was very nearly deaf — whom Moriarty had strapped a bomb to, which he'd then proceeded to activate. It would have taken twenty seconds, thirty at max, to safely disable the bomb. He'd located the general area of the lady's whereabouts from the background noises and calculated the amount of time that would be necessary to find her exact location. Initially, he'd been pleased that, unlike the previous targets, this woman didn't cry hysterically or whimper pitifully, allowing him to discern her general vicinity. He hadn't factored in the possibility that she wouldn't be able to cooperate with the necessary efficiency.

"And of course there's me, with my blackmailing governments and such. And then," she looks sharply at him, "there's you."

"Me." His brow furrows.

She smiles grimly. "You're always observing people, reading their lives from the simplest of actions. Most people don't wake up in the mornings and wonder what clothing would make them least vulnerable in the eyes of a keen observer."

"Well, it's hardly my fault people are so keen to broadcast their lives to the world," he retorts, the slightest sign of annoyance ghosting across his features. "Besides, what benefit is there in being ignorant? How utterly _enthralling_ life would be."

"You wouldn't be bored."

He remembers the experiments and the addictions — the bullets in the wall.

"You would never be bored because life would be enjoyable enough simply as it were. You know as well as I do that Moriarty does what he does because he's got all the power in the world and nothing to do with it. Why do you think he's so obsessed with you? You think as much as he does, with as much conviction as he does."

His eyes flash. "Do _not_ assume that I'd ever kill for the sake of merriment because I have a similar mindset."

Her features soften as one corner of her lips curves upward. "No," she says quietly, "that's where you differ. You're on the side of the law. You may have similar methods: observing, manipulating, toying with people's minds, but ultimately, you'll do what's right."

He exhales a bit harder than necessary. "Many people would disagree."

"I didn't say you were one of them." She's fully smiling now.

He arches a brow in reply._ Didn't you?_

"Moriarty may be obsessed with you because you work for the law, but you're certainly not one of them. They're too sentimental for you, the frivolity of which wastes too much time to be of any practical benefit." She tilts her head bemusedly. "Your techniques are as devious as his."

_This is what she does_, he thinks. She analyzes emotional responses, reactions beyond the surfaces of anger, sadness, or joy — unlike him. To him, the world is a series of logical routes, all the paths of which are based on probable circumstance. Events occur due to cause and effect in a pattern that's been likely engraved in humanity since the beginning of its existence. People become angry if a precious item of their possession is stolen from them — logical. People do _not_ become angry if someone they've spoken to all of three times is captured by an international criminal organization.

And yet…it's all the same in the end, isn't it? Motive, method, purpose.

He shifts — the slightest sign of discomfort.

"And what of yourself, Ms. Adler? Exactly whose side are you on — no, _do_ allow me."

She presses her lips together and looks at him expectantly.

"You're not like Moriarty — that much is obvious. You don't kill for recreational purposes, and yet you aren't disinclined to going against the law. He isn't obsessed with you — if he were, he'd be after you, so he thinks you're dead, and he can't be bothered to make the effort to investigate your death. Why? Because," he expresses with revelation, "you don't give him a challenge."

Her expression remains anticipating.

"…but not because you aren't able to, you _choose_ not to."

Something vaguely akin to fear materializes in her eyes. "Moriarty is a dangerous man. He lacks any and all moral rectitude. He has no concern for anything other than power; he certainly has no heed for life, even his own."

He recalls the dark, empty eyes staring back at the barrel of his gun. As he'd lowered the muzzle to the bomb pack, morbid glee had manifested across his features at the prospect of death.

"I may be shameless and unethical, but I'm not inhuman."

Comprehension dawns on him. "So you pretend to be less than you are, allowing him to have control."

Her expression hardens. "_Some_ control, when it suits me."

He nods. "It allows you to live as you wish, all the while maintaining the assurance of relatively safety."

"Just as you live as you wish — traveling to Karachi and killing off a branch of a well-renown terrorist organization — all the while retaining the assurance that the law is on your side."

He thinks about what she says. Would he have done what he did without the connections he'd had? He'd like to think that he could have pulled it off without the help of the idiotic court official whose ass he'd saved last year involving a vengeful mistress.

And yet.

One thing he couldn't deny was that he owed his life to many people. As much as he hates to acknowledge it — he's not a child _anymore _— if it weren't for Mycroft pulling him out of his drug use when he had, he could still be lying in the university basement with only the pyjamas on his back. And of course there'd been Lestrade, who'd given him a case the way an owner might give a dog a bone. A skinny young lad in a rehabilitation facility with a long history of drug abuse — Lestrade, had, for some odd reason, believed the wild theories coming out of his mouth.

And then dear, dear old Mrs. Hudson. No matter how brusque he'd been — and he had, at times, been very brusque, not only when referring to her husband but also to her — she'd always insisted he stay for a cup of tea.

And of course, there was John. John, who'd shot a man for him. John, who still stuck with him even after both he and his girlfriend were thrown in mortal danger because he couldn't help being Sherlock Holmes. John, who'd been willing to sacrifice his own life in order to save his.

"We all need a safety blanket, even you, Sherlock Holmes."

And then there was the woman in front of him. Had she known when she'd made the phone call? Had she known that she'd be interrupting the staged murders of not only himself, but also John Watson and the consulting criminal himself?

"Nobody can operate in the world completely alone. I do believe it's why you're here."

Her phone chimes, indicating a text.

"Well then. We have an hour tonight. Let's get down to business, shall we?"

* * *

Thoughts?

Also, if anyone wants to check out the look I imagined for Irene Adler (dark red, shoulder-length hair), go to letters-from-space DOT tumblr DOT [c o m] and search "Game. Set. Match." on the tags.


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